Systems of Classification
by earthy4
Summary: He gave himself about three seconds to commiserate with the floor on the current state of his life before raising his head slightly and yelling toward the kitchen, "Sherlock!"


[[For crayoladinosaurs, based on the prompt "For any reason, Sherlock is in sexy heels," for the johnlockchallenge gift exchange on Tumblr, September 2012. This...probably isn't what you were looking for. Also it's extremely silly. ^^;; Hope it's still at least somewhat entertaining!]]

The sitting room was still full of women's shoes when John got home from work that night.

He cleverly deduced this even before visual confirmation by virtue of tripping over a pair of white patent leather stilettos in the doorway, making a squeak he was going to vehemently deny later, and falling flat on his face amidst, though it hardly seemed possible, an even bigger sea of shoes than the one he'd waded through this morning to get out of the flat.

He gave himself about three seconds to commiserate with the floor on the current state of his life before raising his head slightly and yelling toward the kitchen, "Sherlock!"

His efforts got him a grunt from that general direction, which was more than he'd expected, really. He heaved himself to his feet, clenched and unclenched his right hand once, then made a beeline for the source of a good 99.9% of the frustration in his life.

He narrowly missed getting beaned by a midnight blue platform on the way, saved only by years of rigorous army training and enough familiarity with irritated consulting detectives to know when to duck.

"Not your size?"

"Tedious," said Sherlock, who was busy glaring at his microscope. The table was littered with more shoes, slides, and a timer. "Would've gone faster if you'd done the scrapings when I asked."

John rubbed his eyes and began an investigation into the whereabouts of the kettle. "Didn't notice I'd gone to work, then. I take it you haven't solved it yet?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Solved it hours ago. Bored."

"Hmm. Tea?"

That earned John the usual Only Mere Mortals Would Want Tea At A Time Like This glare, so he shrugged and made some for himself.

The kitchen was quiet save for his general shuffling and, eventually, the shrill call of the kettle boiling. John might've enjoyed the brief respite if he weren't so certain it was going to be exactly that: brief.

"John." The noise of a shoe heel being tapped against the table, arhythmic, annoying. "Would you prefer it if I were a woman?"

John came close to knocking over his mug. "That depends," he said, keeping his voice light. "Would I still have to live with you and your newfound shoe fetish?"

Sherlock waved a shoe at him. "Men's size 13. Owner killed by his lover in a fit of frankly childish rage over the wearer's gender. Methods of classification incompatible. As a motive it'll suffice, I suppose, but it's incredibly stupid."

"You're a scientist; you know how people rely on systems of classification to understand things," John pointed out.

"Yes, but when the classification itself becomes inefficient, it's time to come up with a new one. Murder hardly seems conducive to that."

"And this has what, exactly, to do with you being-or not being-a woman?"

"It just occurred to me that, hung up as you are yourself on unnecessary classifications, you might find prefer it if I were a woman, given that you're attracted to me."

John turned the ensuing choke into a derisive snort at the last moment but still burned his tongue on his tea. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I don't have to; you do it for me." He tipped his head and eyed John thoughtfully, obviously cataloging responses entirely inappropriately. "Interesting."

John set down his mug with more emphasis than was strictly necessary. "No, not _interesting_. Ridiculous, maybe, or ludicrous, or just plain _wrong_-"

Sherlock gave him a wounded look. "I'm never wrong."

"Well, you are now. Congratulations."

"You're not attracted to me, then? There's plenty of physiological evidence to the contrary, you know, so it's not like you have a leg to stand on-"

John blew out an irritated breath. "Of _course_ I'm attracted to you, you idiot. I suspect I'm even a bit in love with you, which we both know is the _last _thing your ego needs. But the idea that I might wish you were a woman is just about every shade of wrong."

Sherlock blinked at him. "I-you-oh. But you're not gay."

"No, and don't think I'm not peeved you're making me throw away years of self-realization. I'm going to have to reorganize my entire classification of self because of you, you sod, so I hope you're happy."

A supremely baffled Sherlock Holmes was, John reflected, certainly worth getting a look at, even at the expense of one's own sense of propriety. "You...wouldn't prefer it if I were a woman."

"No," John agreed. "Unless _you'd _prefer it, of course."

"No."

"Well, then." John turned around to retrieve his mug, but got distracted midway by having a consulting detective drape himself over John's back. The slight hesitation in the movement made something in John's chest tighten, and he took time out from smirking to give Sherlock's arm a squeeze.

"Kiss me," Sherlock mumbled into his neck.

"Hmm. Maybe after you pick up the shoes."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but he also set a flat-cleaning record.


End file.
